The Letter
by StitchGrl
Summary: Christine's envy sets in when she reads a letter addressed to Erik. Chapter 5 installed.
1. Default Chapter

**Chapter I **

He let her see the letter.

Not disturbing him, she looked over his shoulder and struggled to read the words. He made no move to hide it from her, and to prove it, he unsealed the envelope with a small razor and pulled the candle a bit closer to his face, so that she could get a better look at what was written.

"Just between you and me," The envelope read. Erik set it down, and unfolded the piece of paper within.

_Erik,_

_Since it is never time to speak face to face,_

_Just between you and me, I've appreciated your kindness._

_Just between you and me, I have been loyal._

_Just between you and me, you should never doubt me._

_Just between you and me, I am sorry. Perhaps I have been too prideful, but I've never had anyone put so bluntly that they find me selfish, and it hurt me deeply. It has been some time, and we have both grown—This is not an attempt to rekindle an old friendship, but a congratulations. It pleases me to think that perhaps you've found prospect with your new ingénue._

_Just between you and me, I wish you all the happiness that this life can bring._

_If you need me, you know where to find me._

_Yours, Mame Giry_

Christine could not see whether Erik smiled or not, but she sensed it. She watched him carefully fold the letter and place it back into the envelope. She counted silently as he leisurely opened the top drawer of his reading desk, and placed the letter inside with his long, graceful hand. He closed the drawer and turned to her slowly.

"Shall we proceed with the lesson?"

Christine did not speak—she felt a knot in her throat that sent tears rushing to her eyes, but for the sake of not letting him see, she turned and wiped her face with her hands brusquely, feigning a sudden sneeze, and held out her arms in a gesture which denied him a clear view of her face. As discreetly as she possibly could, she took in long, deep breaths for several seconds, and faced him with a smile.

"I think I might feel a bit of cold coming on. Perhaps, it is best that I rest tonight."

His eyes studied her curiously, and sighing, he nodded compliantly, "Is that why you truly wish to retire?"

She smiled a half-smile and shook her head quickly. It was in its own way a condescending smile, and she took a step away from him. "Yes, Erik, it is."

"You don't seem yourself," He said without insinuation. He watched her as she moved backwards towards the door of his room. Clumsily, she backed up into his funeral bed, and she muttered an apology under her breath. With a quiet command, he called her name, and she stopped, blinking at him with all the effort she could afford in order to hold back her tears.

"I have nothing to hide from you, Christine," his voice came as a whisper. "I want you to know everything."

_Perhaps I cannot handle everything. _But the bitterer she became, the easier the smile spread across her porcelain face. She pursed her lips over her parched tongue and nodded once again. "Thank you, Erik," was all that she muttered.

Though disbelieving her, he sighed and allowed her to silently leave the room. He had his own uncomfortable thoughts, but something within him was unable to put his finger on why exactly he could not soothe her pain. He could explained that it the letter was Mame Giry's apology for the argument they had over Meg Giry's promotion. But an explanation would perhaps show her he cared too much; thus he sad nothing. And it's been so long since he'd spoken with the box-keeper after the disagreement. The possibility that Christine was jealous was amusing, but it was no laughable matter. He fell silent as she did and was as awkward as she was…Perhaps he his opening the letter in front of her hurt her pride, but he had wanted to be completely honest with his dear Christine.

She closed the door behind her and let out a heated cry into her own hand. The tears which she'd somehow managed to suffocate came pouring out as she ran into her room, slamming the door violently behind her. She didn't want Erik to hear a thing, and she certainly didn't want him to hear her sobs. Who was Mame Giry to him, anyway? Why did he show her the letter? _Just between you and me_; that sounded so personal, so tender, and so exclusive! Christine was not included in the text except for the mention of "ingénue," which the Mame only mentioned to congratulate Erik's contentment. Carlotta had called Christine an ingénue once, and it had been out of contempt. Was the mistress of Box Five contemptuous, too?

Christine reprimanded herself for thinking this way. She was too irrational—too jealous and suspicious for her own good. But what if the Mame was truly green-eyed? Then again, the Mame had always been more of a helper to Erik than Christine had been, wasn't that true? The Mame had never questioned his authority, nor torn off his mask without permission! Mame was not much older than Erik and knew him long before Christine did—an affair was not entirely impossible! Mame had wisdom, strength, and independence, qualities which Christine could not afford. She remembered how Erik would always answer her questions patiently but with a tone of resigned understanding. Oh, how terrible! Her thoughts of the letter drove her madly into her own cocoon, and as she sank down into her bed, she curled into a tiny ball and buried her head between her knees. Shriveled and degraded, she wept.

When her eyes were shut, she saw the delight on Erik's face as he read that letter of apology. Whatever had transpired between Mame and Erik, it must have grieved him terribly enough to make him smile after reading those words. She had sensed his relief! In his shoulders, in his tone—he seemed almost guilty after reading that in front of her, didn't it?

A soft knock upon her door prompted Christine to wipe her eyes and peek out of her covers. She had forgotten to lock her door in her frenzy, and now the knob was being turned slowly, quietly, by Erik's skeletal fingers! He leaned in through doorway, his shadow illuminated by the dim lights in the living room, and as he stood motionlessly she could hear him sighing for her to rest in peace. Still angry, she resisted, but his voice fluttered between her ears and drew her eyelids down heavily. She had not noticed how quickly he was soon at the foot of her bed, sitting down gently as he sang his sweet lullaby at her feet. His hands crept over the covers and brushed the air of her knee, and in her drowsiness she heard him speak that he would protect her always and that she need not ever leave him.

But tonight, she could not forgive him merely at the sound of his voice. Tonight, she was tense as she fell asleep, dreaming of how tomorrow, she will make sense of things. Like a hungry beaten child, she will still be bruised tomorrow, and he will know how much he'd hurt her. And with that resolve, and the lullaby still in her ear, Christine fell asleep on her tear-soaked pillow.


	2. 2

Silence is the cruelest sound.

They exchanged not a word on their journey across the lake. Christine let herself get dizzy staring into her rippling reflection in the water. With her head hung low, she couldtheparticles of moisture as he rowed. _Swish swish_. He did not breathe, move, nor speak, so squeezing tears from her eyes, she let them drip into the lake. Upon each droplet, she wished that he would never ever, ever love someone the way that he loved her. Shaking her head, she reconsidered, and wished that he loved no other than her at all.

She assigned herself the right to be selfish. Then, looking up at those beautiful hands which guided the oar, she felt the terrifying envy in her chest again. Last night was still fresh in her memory. Sickness had overcome her when she'd watched those hands dragged the razor across so precisely, stopping perfectly at the corner of the envelope. Had they glutted and carved into the flesh of innocents, washed the bones of the dead in the lake water, poisoned the goblet of wine of the Sultan of Peru, it would not be as terrible as their setting upon another woman's shoulders. Nothing was so terrifying as the thought of his hands belonging to someone else.

Reaching up, she clutched his sleeve, and he stopped rowing. Startled, he looked down at her as she shook his arm whiningly like a child. As soon as she did, she regretted—she did not want him to see her as his little girl, but her actions outmaneuvered her mind, and unconsciously she shook his wrist again.

"Yes, Christine?" Concern and surprise reverberated in his voice. His eyes fell upon the sleeve where her fingers had barely brushed his skin and remained there for a moment before looking up at her again.

Twisting the wondrously soft material of his shirt, she said "It is nothing." And like a puppet's whose strings had been cut, she dropped her hand into her lap.

Without a moment's hesitation he began to row again, almost too irritably. The sound of the water marched with the beating of her noiseless heart, and so relieved was she when they reached shore, she did not allow him to help her off the boat. He let her lead the way to the gates, stunned at her preoccupied mind, and did not even say a word to her as he gave her the keys. He watched as she brushed a few stray strands from her face madly as if she could not bear the fact that they got in her way. She took the keys from him hastily. She struggled clumsily with the lock, and sighing, he took it from her and turned the key swiftly, holding upon the gate chivalrously with one arm.

"You shall wait for me here, at midnight."

She heard a sudden _squeek _and oh how she screamed! A mouse, the size of perhaps her big toe ran across her feet. She jumped and shook her leg violently; it was as if the rodent was already crawling up her leg and gnawing at her knee—oh how she hated rats! The shrill vivacity of her screams knifed through the silence, and at once those hands were upon her.

They lifted her on her back; they lifted her far, far away from the ground where any of the little beasts could attack her and cradled her firmly in their unyielding embrace. The hands belonged to her for this terrible, horrible, wonderful moment. Distanced from the demons that ran wild in the darkness, she kept screaming, ever so scared that he would let go.

"Oh cursed, cursed!" She cried, still shaking from the fright—it had been so small, but so hairy and alive! Chills trailed up and down her neck, like the little mouse would do, and she could think of nothing but how he must never let her down!

"Is it still there?" She asked. "I didn't see it coming in the dark."

"It didn't see you, my dear. Or it would not have run so bravely over your feet." With anger unmistakable in the voice, he set her down. "Did you think for a moment that perhaps you frightened the poor creature? You are in his house, my dear, not your own."

"Well then," she snapped, picking up her skirts, "tell him I'm sorry for my rude intrusion!"

Then, doing the only thing she ever knew in the face of uncomfortable moments, Christine ran away.

The faster she ran towards where daylight showed, the closer she would be to sweet Raoul. Yet when the Vicomte leapt from where he'd been waiting for her and greeted her with an excited kiss, she'd offered him her cheek instead.

"I hate it when you do that," said the boy. And he really spoke the truth. Cruel, cruel, cruel Christine, who listlessly took the bouquet from him and set it upon her dressing table, sank into her chair, rested her cheek in her folded arms, and meekly smiled back at her handsome suitor.

His put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed warmly. Such a darling was he, that he would never want to see her upset, he would never choose her over a letter, a mouse, or his music. She appreciated him far more than he knew, and her smile broadened. It relieved him so.

"You look as if phantoms have been haunting you, my love."

And then she was not smiling anymore.


	3. 3

**Chapter 3**

Subtly was not Christine's strong suit.

"What do you make of Mame Giry?"

Raoul's fork stopped short of reaching his lips, and he looked concerned. "Is she upsetting you, Christine?"

She shook her head most fervidly, "Of course not. I am just curious."

"About what I _make_ of the Mame?"

"Well, yes," She said as nonchalantly as possible and politely took a sip of her soup. "Would you say she were admirable?"

"She's established her authority in the Garnier, if that's what you mean." He continued to take another bite of his food. "But I'm not sure how that pertains to you, Christine."

"So you would find that authority attractive?"

"Attractive?"

"Yes, attractive."

Raoul put down his fork, and leaned a little forward. He read her eyes with a smile in his own, and said, "My love, I'm not quite sure what you're insinuating, but if you're suggesting I find the ballet mistress, who is, by God, I don't know how many years ahead of me, _attractive_ in any sense of the word, I'd have to say you've got quite a lurid imagination!"

His good natured answer pleased her, and she reached for his hand, and kissed the back of it sweetly. "I knew you would say such a thing!"

He gave a short, almost high-pitched laugh. "In fact, the Mame's sanity have been questioned by Firmin and Armand quite a few times!"

Christine withdrew her hand from his. "Why is that?"

"Well," Raoul continued after a taking a sip of his wine, "I don't want to tarnish the woman's image in your head, Christine, and truly, I myself have no right to judge her state of mind, but apparently," and he leaned a little closer and lowered his voice as he said this, "she believes in ghosts."

Christine blinked, pressing her hand against her heart in a feigned shock that pleased her suitor's excited story-telling. "Oh?"

"Indeed! She told Firmin and Armand that the reason she keeps box five empty is because the _Opera Ghost _commanded her to do so." At the words, "Opera Ghost," Raoul pursed his lips as if annunciating something truly ghostly.

"And Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard believe the Mame?"

"Of course not!" Raoul laughed again, this time sitting back and bringing the glass of wine to his curled lips in a toasting fashion. But then he paused and frowned, deciding in the moment not to drink. "But there have been a few unusual notes which have surfaced upon the poor men's desks, demanding of them the most absurd things, such as who shall be replaced in the chorus, who shall be promoted as the new dancer, and most amusing of all, a _salary_ of twenty thousand francs a month!"

"Twenty thousand francs?" She gasped, when her mind was really on who had been promoted.

Raoul took that sip and set the glass down upon the table. He shook his head, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "The strange thing is, these notes have been signed as _O.G.,_" and he looked at her to confirm that she knew what the letter stood for, "and they have no proof that Mame Giry is responsible. Though, I really doubt that the woman has anything to do with it, even if her daughter had been promoted by Firmin and Armand following the letters."

"But Why would the Opera Ghost asked the managers to promote Meg?"

"Christine," Raoul took her hand sincerely, and wrapped her fingers in his own, "You're not really oblivious to the rumors of the supposed _Phantom of the Opera_, are you?"

"I've heard of him," She said. "Once in a while, Meg brings him up."

Raoul nodded, "Ah see? Meg. She would know since he's supposedly responsible for her promotion."

"How do you know the ghost is a man?"

"I don't believe in ghost, my love." Taking her other hand in his, he looked deeply into her watery eyes, "especially ones who request a monthly salary and issue notes obviously written by the human hand. The ghost is real, indeed. But he is without a doubt, a man. It is only a matter of time before we catch him."

"Oh, I doubt you'll be able to reveal such a man," She said too quickly.

Raoul frowned. "You shouldn't sound too sure of that, Christine."

She shrugged and smiled with the vacancy that her youth could afford. "Well Mame Giry should help with this investigation then. The _O.G. _seems so fond of her, no?"

He returned the grin and patted her hand. "Mame Giry seems quite straightforward in her approach of things. Her explanation for her abiding by his rules is that she sees him doing no harm as long as she follows his orders." He chuckled softly. "It appears that the ghost is very generous; he leaves her ten francs for providing him with a footstool!"

"A footstool?"

"A footstool."

Christine bit her lip. "Is he a very short man?" She asked, even though she knew the real answer would be negative.

"I would assume so," Raoul said, "unless he had a lady friend with him."

"That's impossible, he can't have a lady friend!" Saying this, Christine unconsciously pushed herself back in her seat and nearly stood before she realized the volume with which she cried.

"Christine!"

"Raoul?" She sat back down, realizing what a scene she had just made and how quickly she was to react. Pressing her napkin to her mouth, she cleared her throat and lowered her eyes, uneasily smiling as her cheeks grew hot.

"Perhaps we should finish this conversation another time," Raoul said, "It seems that all this wine and talk of ghosts have unnerved you entirely."

"No, I'm fine," She said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She was going to go out of her mind! Suddenly aware that she really didn't know her maestro as well as she had hoped, Christine ran her sweaty palms over her lap. "Perhaps, we should continue this at another time."

As they stood to leave, Raoul helped place her jacket around her shoulders, lingering his hands affectionately over her arms before they headed outside. When the cool night air touched her face, she was transposed once more to this morning at the gates of La Rue Scribe. In a few hours, she will pick up her keys from her drawer and head down to his cold dungeon again. Who knows, she might even encounter that hideous little mouse. She grimaced at the thought of its stick-like tail. Every rustle of tree leaves reminded her of that wild pet, and at that image, she cringed. She didn't know whether she would be able to hold her composure if she met with it again. But regardless of her fear, she refused to jump like a little brat into Erik's arms again!

Before she realized, Raoul had leaned in for a kiss. She awkwardly accepted, blinking several times before she realized whose mouth was upon hers. Why is it that she did not feel so guilty when Raoul kissed her like this? It was without question more than a friendly kiss to him, but perhaps it was because she herself knew the kiss as nothing more than a kiss in passing; a kiss of friendship was not so bad, was it? Christine kept her mouth closed and shut her eyes politely, but before she did so, she caught something in the corner of her eyes. Something, like a shade.

When she pulled away, she looked around and confirmed that they were still standing alone.

"Come, Christine," Raoul said, in that familiar, adoring tone. Then taking her hand with a grin, the Vicomte led her to their carriage. He had no idea how many times she'd heard those words before, just from an infinitely different, mysterious soul.


	4. 4

**Chapter 4**

Tonight's lesson was especially difficult.

At Erik's request, she sang Ophelia's part from _Hamlet._ In her distressed state, she'd channeled all her worries in her song, and her voice had actually never sounded better. Erik was pleased, and he stopped mid-song, which only happened on the rare occasion, to sing her the praises she welcomed uneasily. It bothered her, that only through her terrible angst, was she able to produce the results that he'd wanted. It bothered her tremendously.

"Again," He commanded, his fingers striking the chord which launched into the aria, but she hesitated too long.

"No," she said softly.

He looked up from the organ, surprised. "What is the matter; are you ill?"

_In mind_. She shook her head.

"Then let us proceed," he struck the chord again and waited for her to begin; when she didn't open her mouth, he whispered, "Christine…"

The disappointment in his voice was astounding! Veiled in concern, the immediate quality of disapproval in his tone made her weak in the stomach, and in turn, she found it harder to speak.

So she bit her lip, parted them, and closed them again. She pouted and squirmed, writhing her fingers together in a nervous, jittery fashion, and finally, when she could no longer bear the sternness in those yellow eyes, she spoke.

"I have been feeling a bit ill at ease."

"Oh?" He let his fingers slip slowly from the ivory keys and turned to her on the organ bench. "Tell me what it is, my dear. I will have it fixed right away."

"You sound as if you can just turn a switch, and everything will be fine," she mumbled.

"Whatever makes you happy," he said seriously, and his words touched her. Perhaps he did love her after all. A smile formed at the corners of her lips.

"I wouldn't want you to think me petty for bringing this up, Erik."

"Tell me what it is, and let me judge whether it befits 'petty' or not."

"It's about the letter."

"The letter?"

"And the footstool."

"The footstool…"

"Yes, but first, the letter."

Erik was very quiet. Then quite suddenly, he asked irritably, "What about the letter?"

"What about it, Erik?" She said almost relieved, "What does it mean? Why did you share it with me the way you did last night? Why were you so conspicuous? Why?"

"That's a lot of questions at once, my child."

Christine groaned inwardly and clenched her teeth. It would never work like this—not when he kept calling her _his child._

"I'm twenty years old, Erik."

He laughed, amused. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

"I am twenty years old, and I no longer have a father." At the mention of Papa, the tears stung almost immediately.

The small smile behind the mask faded, and his voice became very light. "As I am aware of that."

"Thus, I am no one's child but my own. I wish you to stop addressing me as that."

There was a long hard pause before he agreed resignedly. "If that is what you wish."

"I wish, that along with being addressed as an adult, I will be treated as one."

"Is that all?"

"And I wish you would not lie to me about the original intent of the letter."

"It is just a letter," he said.

"Yes, but it meant something to you, or else you would not have smiled after you read it."

"A letter from a friend can make one smile."

"So she is a friend!"

"Only a friend, Christine."

"No, but she's a woman friend!"

"Yes?"

"And I am just a child!"

"You've expressed your concerns with that title, already, my dear."

"I am just a child to you, aren't I, Erik?"

He sighed.

"I cannot not even be—" She continued, "A friend."

"I do not consider a student a friend."

At those cruel words, she gasped and choked back a sob. It was worse than she'd anticipated; this confession has been a disaster—a disaster! She shrank back from him in resentment.

"So there it is. I am nothing to you but a stupid little girl who sings for you on command," She was biting back a certain madness in her voice, and then when he did not look up at her, she cried, "Why don't you just lock me up in a cage, like all the other birds!"

"Christine!"

"And if you'll grant me one last wish, Erik," she demanded, "You'll promise to not deceive me!"

Something switched in those unblinking eyes. Something melancholy and unforgiving took over the calming, amused expression which occupied them before. She did not know what she had said; it could have been the women friend or the accusations that flew from her mouth, but everything poured out of her in logical progression. Then why was he so angry?

He stood, leaving the organ without as much as a glance back at her, and walked towards the fireplace, where upon the mantelpiece sat a bottle of brandy. Reaching for it, he poured the liquid into the empty glass and crossed his arms beneath his cloak. He took his drink slowly, and finishing it, he placed it back upon the mantel. He tilted his head towards her direction, the glowing eyes like coals boring to the back of her head. Christine remembered this look, and it terrified her. It was not the teacher who'd just praised her moments ago who looked back at her from behind the mask, but an animal—a beast of a man who she'd only seen on the first night he took her to this house. She saw a hungry, forbidding glare which sent the hairs on the back of her neck on end, and she realized beneath her dress her body had broken into pure cold sweat. From his body language, she could tell that he was on the verge of his patience, like a nesting hawk, more than overeager to shred its prey. She stood her ground nonetheless and was very careful not to make a sound. Then staring at the soundless movement of his cloak, she knew.

The shade, the one that she had seen right before she closed her eyes, had been real. Erik had followed her back to her dressing room. He'd pretended to leave, but oh she was a fool! He would never trust her alone. She might as well have led him to Raoul, and kissed the boy shamelessly outright! _See, it meant nothing, and I feel nothing! _She wanted to scream. Why couldn't he read her body language the way she was able to read his? Why couldn't he be such a genius at that? Why?

Christine groaned within. She'd placed the last nail on her own coffin just now, and there was no tools available to pry it back out. She was truly trapped by her own foolishness.

Even while she reflected and her expression had changed from determined to morose, his stayed exactly the same. His eyes, like a viper's, stayed deadly focused on her, and she still noted that they'd not blinked once.

"I think," she began, "that I'm going to retire to my room now."

He did not answer, and unwrapped his arms beneath his cloak. He removed it from his shoulders and made a motion for her to take it with her, suggesting that he would not need it's warmth anymore. Perhaps the drink had warmed him.

Stumbling ungracefully forward, she took the cashmere cloak from him, carefully keeping all contact at a minimum. But as she said, "Goodnight, Erik," she felt his grasp suddenly around her arm, and she could do nothing but turn around to face the terrible glowing eyes.

"I will grant you you're wishes, Christine," He said kindly and yet dangerously at the same time. "But for your abundant wishes, I only as one favor in return. That's more than fair, don't you think?"

"Of course." Her gaze traveled to the gauntly hand that clasped at her with threatening force.

Erik pulled her closer to him with both hands and grasped onto her bare shoulders. He lowered his voice, purposely excluding every other living specimen around them, and said jauntingly, "My dear _sweet_ Mademoiselle, promise me that you're lips will never meet Raoul de Chagny's again." He released her, "And you shall have your wish!"

Mademoiselle Daae, too shaken to react, replied compliantly, "That's just fine, Erik. That's just fine." Then, fearing his hands would once again surprise her, she could not help but turn and run to her bedroom like a petrified little girl.


	5. 5

"_People always want what they can't have; thus they must learn to live with what they don't want."_

Papa always said that at supper to compensate for the guilt he felt for providing little. Christine would eat what was given to her because she respected him; having eggs and roast hen meant nothing to her. She did not want to think of him now, but she remembered what he said.

Christine had been sitting in front of her boudoir for an hour. She flattened the piece of parchment in front of her and dipped her pen into the little bottle of ink. She had started the letter: _Dear Erik_ neatly, and it ended there. Did she want to write a farewell letter or an apology letter? If she had to power to foresee the future and know that he would forgive her for kissing Raoul, then she would apologize. Yet, she was still angry at the possibility that Erik may care for someone else as much as he seemed to care for her.

She slipped the letter into the drawer and decided she would think clearer in the morning.

Her reflection showed how pale she was. She had not noticed the frown lines between her brows before. There they were: two small indents above her eyes imprinted deeply in her fair forehead. Stress was making her age, and she loathed the thought.

Then again, age didn't seem to matter so much to Erik. Christine felt so belittled and looked down upon when she was with him, and that made her more eager to please him than ever. His adoration and emulation towards her meant more than Raoul's for that reason.

A knock sounded three times.

"Come in."

A black shadow slipped through the door and moved towards her. A long cape, a tux, and grace, could not hide the strain in his limbs as he moved. He was, at once, behind her, and Christine watched in suspended horror and fascination as those spidery hands set tenderly upon her shoulders.

"My dear, I have frightened you."

"No, please." She said. The coldness of his fingers contrasted starkly with the gentleness of his touch. It might as well have been icicles that were kindly stroking her neck. "I am sorry, but I must know the truth."

He tilted his head slightly to one side.

"I'm terribly jealous, Erik, and if you don't tell me, I think I shall die!"

He appeared to be almost confused, but the yellow eyes willed her to continue.

"Do you love Mame Giry?"

"No," He said in an auspicious tone. "No."

"Oh, Erik!" She expelled a sob and turned to him. "I hoped you would say that! I'm terribly sorry to pry, but I was so unsure! The letter first, and then the footstool and the fan made me feel even worse!"

"How did you know about the footstool?"

Christine felt heat in her face as one long hand came to cup her cheek. His palm touched her chin and his fingers pressed against her ear. She looked very small.

"Speak the truth or do not speak at all."

"I think you know," She said, and lowered her eyes so she would not have to meet his. "I care for him as much as you care for Mame Giry, I suppose. With respect, kinship, and affection shared in our history."

He examined her critically like a scientist would towards a rare disease. She felt his grim, untrusting, yet hoping demeanor. For a man who was quite frank at other moments, she could see that something had barricaded his expression.

"You know not what I look like, and you shall never know." His fingers came to stroke her hair lovingly, but despite the closeness of contact, he barely touched her.

"Are you so hideous?" She asked and turned towards him. She looked up into his glowing eyes and shook her head at him. "Are you afraid that I shall faint?"

"Frankly, my dear, I think my beauty might kill you." His finger touched the tip of her nose. She realized he meant what he said in jest, and she managed a smile.

"I'm sorry that I assumed. Perhaps you are quite handsome, and I've been terribly rude."

"No," he simply said.

Then, with a great exhalation, Christine threw her arms around him and cried, "Please, take me away! I shall go wherever you take me as long as it's far from here!"

He bent over her and stroked her head gently. "You know not what you ask. You are but a child, and I will not rob you of your youth. I brought you here in vain and against my better judgment. I suppose it's fair that I pay the price."

"What price?" She sobbed. She was terribly wanting and horribly confused.

"Of wanting what I cannot have," He began with great pain, "Of loving you and hoping you would one day love me as I am. This place and I are too jaunting for you, poor child, and I regretted showing you all this the moment I brought you down. I simply couldn't help myself. I have been a bad influence, indeed, and for this, you must forgive me."

"You've made me who I am. Without you I shall return to the state of alienation I was in when you found me. I never did fit in anywhere. I want more, and I know you can give it to me. Make me feel alive, please," She begged in the most endearing voice, "Take me away!"

He cradled her because she was the most precious thing he has held in his entire life. The truth was that Erik's music, art, books, and architecture had all been a diversion to keep him from remembering how alone he truly was—how without warmth, family, and friends he was. He never felt like he needed such things because he had never had them. Now that he knew what it felt like to care for someone and have her care for him, he couldn't imagine living without such a feeling.

"There is no life for you in this place. Should you choose to stay, you shall begin to miss your friends and your world. Upon that recognition, you will run away. Erik would rather be the sender than the deserted, my dear."

"Oh, curse you!" She cried and stood angrily before him. "Must you always be in the right? Shan't I decide what I shall do with my own life? If I choose to rot here with you, then I will rot here with you!"

Her outburst took him aback. Erik withdrew from her with the image of her rotting away in his house fresh in his mind, and he backed away towards the door.

"Soon, I too shall be rotting, but in a grave—and you will be truly alone."

"Why say such morbid things?" Rage till trembled in her voice. "You will not die, and neither will I. You are making things more difficult than necessary, Erik. I will stay. Nothing plainer than that."

He grasped his heart in exasperation, "You are making this _all too difficult. _I've released you, and you should be elated."

"_People always want what they can't have; thus they must learn to live with what they don't want." _

"I shall be staying right here." Christine walked to her bed and laid her head down against the pillow. Her skirts billowed around her, and her little feet peeped out of her petticoats like two ivory fangs at the bottom of her dress. Erik was still standing at the door, and he watched incredulously as she turned to him and demanded him to tuck her in.

"You shall need much more than your cold stare to get rid of me," she added. "Now please, come here."

He was silent. He came emotionlessly to the foot of the bed and removed her shoes and socks, and he pretended not to notice when she wiggled her toes. He pulled the blanket over her skirts and placed it carefully at elbow's length against her waist. She had folded her hands together and watched him expectantly as he went about this odd ritual. When all was done neatly and meticulously, he stood and bowed. Curtly, he said "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," She replied. She would wait until he left to undress and tuck herself into bed properly, but she had to make him suffer a little, even if it was a little cruel.

She awoke in the middle of the night to an angry howl. It sounded like an animal had died, and it disturbed her so much that she could not fall asleep again.


	6. 6

Christine opened her door and pressed her eye against the crack where the light seeped through. She was calm because she was scared. A wretched howl had awoken her, and it made her jump straight out of bed. Her heart was beating so quickly and loudly that she felt it pulse in her ears.

Her eye searched the room in panic. Her pupil jumped from side to side, unblinking. Then, she caught his shadow at the organ, and she held her breath as he played.

So it was not an cry that woke her. It was his music.

Christine listened. As he played, her heart beat faster and faster, and her ears grew hotter and hotter. She pushed the door open slowly and carefully slipped out. The music was so tremendous that it buried her footsteps completely. She crept slowly towards the black figure whose fingers attacked the organ.

She was so close to him. She could smell his air of death. She could sense the aura of doom and malevolence. She could feel an inexplicable force sucking her into a state of trance, but she resisted. She must not touch him. She dared not touch him. If she touched him, she would regret it.

It was too late. Her hands did the deed while her mind had wandered. A swift movement, and he was naked. That Christine Daae, she had outsmarted the smartest man she knew. The smartest man anyone knew. But till this day, she remains that it was not she, but his music that forced her to do it.

She is still convinced of it.

What happened next has been well documented. It is all true. The crying, the groveling, the kissing of the hem of her dress and the morbid way in which the Phantom described his good looks. Except for one detail:

Before the Phantom pulled Christine's hands to his face and forced her to dig her nails into his flesh, he asked her about the letter. He asked her if she was still worried that his heart belonged to Mame Giry, now that she'd seen his "accursed ugliness." He asked her if she still wondered about the footstool, now that she knows he is hers for life. He told her there was a difference between possessing and loving, and that he would be the latter to her. But what would she be to him?

She did not answer. Things changed when the mask came off. She changed. And so did he.


End file.
